


Kinesiology

by innie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:16:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was a rugby player and medical student and artist's muse all at the same time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kinesiology

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [There's A First Time For Everything](https://archiveofourown.org/works/184275) by [Kate_Lear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear). 



John bent down to do up his laces properly, breathing deeply as he did. It was worth it to sprint over to the pitch before he was even fully awake, because it meant his teammates weren't around to watch him revelling in the scent of fresh grass like a schoolboy set free after an agonisingly long term. Now that he'd stopped running pell-mell, he could feel the early-morning bite in the air that forced his blood to the surface. He shivered happily, zipping up his sweatshirt and then stretching lazily.

A soft scraping sound reached his ears and his head jerked up. There was someone else already there in the stands, holding a pencil nearly sideways in one large hand, brushing it over a thick sketchbook page, presumably to shade something in. The man was paying him no attention, and John turned to face what the artist was seeing. Rugby pitch, faint mist rising from the grass, shafts of sunlight not yet strong enough to dispel the mist. And him, in his navy sweatshirt and grey shorts. He laughed to himself as he began stretching again, imagining himself an artist's muse.

*

It was a point of pride to be called "that little fucker" by the bastards on the other team as they all stood around, shining with sweat, after the match, trying to decide on a pub; he couldn't do anything about his size, but he always determined his own level of aggression. "Chopped off at the knees, were you?" one of the black-short wankers said, and John looked him up and down and laughed.

"Ran circles round you lot, though, didn't he?" Tommy said, slinging a casual arm around John's neck.

The black-shorts were evidently good sorts. "Yeah, alright. Buy you a pint, Tiny Tim?"

"Can't," John said. "Exams again tomorrow."

"Couldn't pay me enough to read medicine," Paul said with a shudder.

"Better me than you," John said, deadpan, snickering and squirming away when Paul caught on and tried to get him in a headlock. "Raise a glass for me!" he called as he jogged off the pitch.

*

Damn and blast, where _was_ that book? It had left a wide gap on the library shelf, but John didn't recognise any of his fellow medical students sitting at the scarred wooden tables. There was only one bloke with a book that looked large enough to be the text he needed, and John blinked in surprise as he saw that the man, who was himself large enough that the book looked relatively normal-sized in his hands, was the artist he'd spotted before the match.

"Hello," he said quietly, mindful of the hush, that quality of stillness he'd always liked about libraries. "Will you be much longer with that text?"

The man looked up, surprised, and went a little pink. "The plan was to read it till I understood it, but . . ."

John smiled encouragingly. Surely the man – who was no older than he was, just bloody enormous – could read the desperation on his face? If he'd only had an extra hundred pounds at the beginning of term, he could have bought the book and been reading it right now, wall against his back and his sheets tangled round his ankles. But Harry had talked him into buying rounds at the pub and he'd been skint by the time the term officially started. He didn't even have enough right now to photocopy the chapters he needed.

"You're not reading medicine, are you?" he asked. He was fairly certain he knew all the med students by sight at least. 

"Visual arts," the man said. "Robert Holden."

It took John a moment to realise that was the man's name, not an artist he was studying. "Ah. John Watson. Medicine."

"Tell you what," Robert said, voice gone even softer, and John leant in to catch the words. "You take the book and you can explain kinesiology to me later."

"Cheers, mate. Yeah, where are you staying?"

Robert smiled then, and John, seeing the worry on his face vanish like it had been wiped away, resolved to go round right after his exam to save Robert any further anxiety.

*

"You're talking shite, Rob. I was the one who asked you out!"

"I seem to recall girding my loins –" Rob's voice faltered as John dropped a meditative hand to the parts in question and worked his fingers as diligently as his clarinet tutor could ever have wished "– to get the courage to ask out the handsome medical student who spent his Sunday mornings ruthlessly decimating opposing rugby squads."

"Very complimentary," John murmured approvingly, smiling at the blatant flattery. "But still utter shite. I was the one who seduced you, you great oaf."

"Not even remotely true, my little man." 

John kept his hand moving unhesitatingly, the velvety skin of Rob's cock growing firmer against his palm, and ducked his head down to take Rob's fingers between his teeth. The tang of graphite landed on his tongue, too familiar by now to be wondered at. Rob was making soft sounds of pleasure, so John bit gently at his fingertips and allowed Rob's hand to fall out of his mouth, long fingers trailing and nudging at his lower lip as they went. "Kinesiology, wasn't it?" he asked, watching the high colour rise in Rob's cheeks. "I had to teach you all about how muscles moved under the skin." Rob's hips were rocking side to side now, and he was squirming to get more contact with John's skin. Just to be cruel, John dropped his voice, letting his breath tickle Rob's flank. "And you drew me bare." 

"Naked," Rob agreed, his voice sounding like he was far, far away instead of right there under John's hand, under John's eyes, smiling and panting and looking at him like John was the only thing worth looking at, like John was a grand master's paint made flesh. "Naked and fucking your fist. Naked and _wanting me_ , cursing me with that filthy mouth, unh." Rob's back arched and John took his cue, pulling back his hand and swinging his leg over Rob's vainly thrusting hips.

He thought back to the lazy afternoon in which Rob had turned him frantic simply by not allowing him to come; he'd known that every visual sign of his desperation for release would be captured by Rob's clever pencil. It was, and Rob had been justly proud of the finished sketch. John deserved a little revenge.

He rocked forward deliberately, imagining what the slinky curve of his body must look like, held taut above Rob's seeking flesh. Rob whimpered under his breath, and John smiled and decided to be magnanimous and make full contact. "Hey," he said, leaning forward and catching hold of Rob's broad, bare shoulders, pulling at the strength in them. He dropped his weight and Rob's cock pushed thick inside him, full and firm and hitting every spot that had been aching to be touched. "Tell me what muscles I'm using now."


End file.
